Squeeze
by Imogen74
Summary: In second person, Molly's POV. A look over three seasons. One shot. Sherlolly, kinda.


When you're Molly Hooper, you're quiet a lot. You have a fire underneath, but not many people know about it.

You're ok with that.

When you're Molly Hooper, you're about as bright as they come. You matriculate with highest honors. But you don't make a fuss. You dislike such pomp.

You keep to yourself in the canteen mostly. No one pays much attention. You have a few close friends...a few people you laugh with.

You feel so much sometimes, so much that you kinda wish that you could stop feeling. You aren't emotional, so most think that you're cold. You aren't. You are warm and kind and you care.

Just not about most of the things other people care about.

When you're Molly Hooper, and you notice someone, too often they don't notice you. But not for any other reason than you don't assert yourself enough to make an impact.

But then, one day you do. One day, you decide to ask that guy out. You've been watching him, paying attention to him. Sometimes he talks to you about stuff. It seems like important stuff...and you get the feeling that he's a lot like you are.

He doesn't get it.

And though it's a little embarrassing, you shrug it off, because that's what you do.

And you watch him over the course of the next few months...he is around more often now, and he has a friend with him. He seems to have found someone else to talk to...

...you acquiesce defeat. You had abandoned romance. You sought his friendship, and you think you have it.

But you can't help but give sidelong glances in the lab while he works. You can't help but be concerned when he's distraught. You worry about him because you care...

You even buy him a Christmas gift. He mortifies you. Then pecks your cheek.

The lab behaves as a confessional for him. He tells you things you're certain he doesn't tell anyone else. Not personal things, per se (but you gather he's a recovering addict, and other things you draw conclusions from do to the nature of your discourse)...but things he won't tell his friend. Things he doesn't want anyone else to know about.

And you're Molly Hooper.

You won't say anything.

And you don't.

When he comes to you for help. When he asks the impossible...because he needs YOU. He needs you. He needs you...

You know that you love him.

And it feels like drowning (or how you imagine it to be, since you've never actually drowned)...it feels like a hand is on your throat, barely squeezing, because oh god you just can't bear to just hardly breathe. Just do it. Just squeeze...

And you help him because you love him.

You let go, because isn't that what they say? Love it, let it go...?

What a rubbish thing to say.

You let him go.

And for too long you don't feel. You are that person everyone thought you were. You are that person who is holding on to nothing at all, waiting for a squeeze.

Touch.

Return back ... You need an indication that he's ok.

People tell you you aren't right. Get over him, a few of your friends say. Date. After all, you never dated him to begin with,

So you do.

You can, you say.

You can...

Your fiancé is alright. He's certainly eager. He's nice enough. Nice enough.

But you've made choices; hard, difficult decisions. Difficult, because he isn't coming back. He isn't, and you nod your acceptance.

So you go through your days putting off planning a wedding, though your fiancé wants to plan. He bugs you about it. You make excuses...you dislike pomp. He doesn't seem to realise this.

Will this work, you wonder?

It will, if you make it.

It was after the night shift. You always have a sore neck after night shift. You think that maybe you're getting too old for this shift.

But you aren't that old.

You open your locker.

And there he is.

Your face betrays emotion...relief and delight, mostly.

You talk to him for a little while. And he leaves to see his friend.

He sought you out first. First.

And you smile.

The day was cold in London when he asked you over. In your head, you think he's wanting to talk more...you think he has things to tell you about while he was gone.

You're Molly Hooper.

That's what you're there for.

But he takes you to work with him...

...and it's lovely.

He notices your ring (of course he does, it's what he is)...pecks your cheek, and you almost take his hand...

To squeeze.

Choking, by definition, isn't the same as drowning...which is why you are choking now.

You choke at the wedding several times.

Choke when your fiancé kisses you. Choke on your words, his words, no scream...just a steady squeeze around your throat...

You need to end it. You can't breathe.

The anger you feel changes you. You fight the taut grip of deceit coiled around your throat. Heart. Mind.

You aren't the same person, because Molly Hooper of old was drowning, choking to death. You don't want to die...

So you let her go.

Touch.

Squeeze.

It isn't that you hate him when he shows up coming off a high. It's that you hate him. And you let him know it. Three times over.

You need to not care. You need to not allow that pressure to make you bleed...

But when he's hurt, and he shows up, you take his hand.

You squeeze.

It'll be alright, you say.

Because it needs to be.

After he leaves...you watch the planes from the rooftop at work. One of them, you think...he's on.

You're Molly Hooper.

You love Sherlock Holmes.

You decide that you'll feel it. Allow it to drape over you at night when nothing else is there and you long for a

Touch.

"Molly."

You sit up, because no one is there.

But he's there. He sits on the edge of your bed...he wasn't supposed to be here...he was gone.

But he's here.

He takes your hand...

And squeezes...


End file.
